


Lightning in a Bottle

by NestingHedwig_aka_LinW



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artists, Character Bashing, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Snarry-A-Thon20, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24021817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NestingHedwig_aka_LinW/pseuds/NestingHedwig_aka_LinW
Summary: No longer influenced by the Horcrux in his scar, Harry’s personality subtly shifts, changing both his career trajectory and his outlook on life. Not everyone understands or accepts those changes.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 56
Kudos: 686
Collections: Snarry_a_Thon20





	Lightning in a Bottle

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** All characters depicted herein in adult situations may safely be assumed to be over eighteen.  
>  **Disclaimer:** The story is based on characters created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including, but not limited to Scholastic Books and Warner Bros. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended; no monetary gain will be made from this story. 
> 
> **Prompt 95:** Give one or both odd jobs whether magical or Muggle. Butcher, baker, candlestick maker? Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy? Well, maybe not that last one, unless it's Harry.

**1**

_“My past is an armor I cannot take off, no matter_  
_how many times you tell me the war is over.”_  
– Jessica Katoff

Dennis Creevey removed the thick latex gloves he always wore while performing the initial rough sort through the bins of items donated to the charity shop he worked at. It wasn’t the most prestigious of professions, but he found solace in the repetitive nature the position provided. In this quiet mundane career, Dennis no longer had to continually watch his back for the constant barrage of curses and hexes cast by certain ultra-traditionalists desiring to exterminate him simply because _they_ deemed his blood not to be as _pure_ as theirs.

But, he acknowledged, the charity shop position was not totally without the risk of danger either. 

While most people submitted bags of reasonably clean clothing and jam-packed boxes and bags of unwanted household objects, others were not as considerate. It was not uncommon to receive musty clothing no longer fit even for use as rags, moldy books, broken appliances and absolute rubbish – especially at month’s end when donors were emptying the house or flat of a deceased friend or family member and didn’t want to pay/couldn’t afford an additional month of rent on that home. The sorters had to be especially careful of broken glass, loose sharp kitchen knives, jagged metal, and stray hypodermic needles. Earlier that year, one of the other London branches of the charity received a live hand grenade, an ex-soldier’s souvenir, unknowingly donated by a grandnephew who had never even met the man.

“Denny,” a middle-aged co-worker called to Dennis from the doorway leading into the charity shop itself. “My shift’s over, so you’ll need to watch the till while Beatrice is on her tea break.”

“Be right there,” Dennis replied, stepping away from the sorting tables. “Are we busy?”

“It’s been steady, but it’s not too bad.” The woman removed her handbag from her employee locker. “There’s a man here to pick up Hadrian’s box.”

Dennis looked toward the till, but there were no customers there.

“Oh, he’s looking about the shop. I don’t see him offhand, but you can’t miss him. He’s wearing a fairy shirt.” The woman hurried out the back door before Dennis could respond.

A _fairy_ shirt? What the hell kind of description was that? Was the shirt pink? Did it have ruffles? A LGBTQ Pride rainbow? What?

Dennis stepped behind the counter, picking up the medium-sized cardboard box labeled ‘Hadrian’ in bold block letters that had been tucked beneath pending pickup. He noted that Beatrice had marked a pittance of a price on the lid and set it on the countertop to await its new owner. It was surprisingly heavy.

Hadrian’s box had always piqued Dennis’ curiosity. For years, Beatrice, the shop manager, sorted through items, including many things Dennis would have outright binned, and placed them into a box with the name ‘Hadrian’ scrawled on the side, calling someone to pick it up once it was filled. The box always contained an odd assortment of old or broken jewelry, glass and wooden beads, chains, mismatched silverware, working and non-working clocks, watches and pocket watches, music boxes, stray keys, odd coins and tokens, and other detritus too peculiar to mention. Nothing in the box was ever digital, and very little was made of plastic. He thought that this month’s box also might contain a few small porcelain dolls and an obsolete camera.

A camera.

The sight of a camera always made his guts twist, even after all these years. Memories of Colin still left him both incredibly angry and incredibly sad. The brothers had been as safely tucked away from the Snatchers and the Death Eaters as they could possibly be until Colin, damn him, had snuck away one night. Colin’s reckless quest for adventure had ended abruptly with his senseless murder in Hogwarts at the age of sixteen. Stupid little twit.

The soft thump of items being placed on the countertop roused Dennis out of his melancholy reflections. Taped together bundles of inexpensive stainless-steel knives, forks and spoons were neatly lined up beside two of the ugliest lampshades he had ever seen: embellished with fabric swags of a black flocked fleur-de-lis pattern onto a bright red satin background and finished with rows upon rows of black glass beaded fringe. Dennis couldn’t imagine any décor they would suit. 

Even his ex-girlfriend, who had atrocious taste, wouldn’t have let them in her flat.

Dennis glanced up and fought a laugh. The man on the other side of the counter was wearing a t-shirt decorated with the black and white photo of a little girl dressed in an enormous tutu and feathery wings. She was holding a pretend wand, festooned with a large, bright hot pink star and the obligatory satin streamers. Beneath the little fairy were the words:  
_I don’t care what people think of me._  
_I’m busy. I’ve got magical shite to do._

Well, that was, indeed, a fairy shirt.

Magical shite, Dennis suddenly thought, wondering what the customer’s reaction would be if suddenly faced with real magic - terrifying deadly magic. He looked up to meet the man’s eyes, saw green, and his mind went blank.

“Hiya, Harry!” Dennis heard himself chirp, his voice octaves higher than normal, and then immediately felt himself blush. By choice, he rarely, if ever, saw anyone from his magical past, and the last person he ever expected to walk into the shop was his childhood man-crush, Harry _Effing_ Potter.

Harry had aged, but not badly. His dark hair tumbled past his shoulders in waves and his frameless eyeglasses complemented his face, not obscuring those fabulous green eyes as his ugly round NHS frames had. He was still very thin, but no longer carried the look of starvation. Harry had grown a little taller, but Dennis now towered over his former housemate. And didn’t that feel odd.

Harry seemed to be just as startled as Dennis, but his expression soon softened in recognition. 

“Creevey…Dennis…it’s been years.” Harry set two t-shirts and a battered box of three-penny nails beside the ostentatious lampshades. “I hope you and yours are doing well.”

“We’re all right,” Dennis replied as he began to tally Harry’s odd purchases. “Holidays, birthdays and the first week of May are a little rough, but you’d know all about that.”

Harry tipped his head in agreement as they fell into an awkward silence. A charity shop in Muggle London was not the place to reminisce about past horrors.

“Hadrian.” Beatrice finally returned to the shop, to Dennis’ relief. “I hope you’ll be pleased with this month’s selection. Be sure to let us know if there’s anything special you wish us to collect for the next box.”

“You never disappoint, Miss B. We’ve had no cause to complain.” Harry replied, politely, as he paid for his purchases. He noticed the manager look at the lampshades askance and smiled. “I hope to salvage that marvelous beadwork. There’s certainly no hope for the rest.” 

Dennis began to place the smaller purchases into a sturdy canvas tote bag Harry handed him. As he set down the final bundle of forks into the bag, Dennis realized that the bag was spelled to be featherlight and bottomless. He smoothed out the pair of t-shirts to neatly fold them before placing them atop the cutlery and other items. 

The first shirt featured a statement that Dennis thoroughly agreed with:  
_The day I changed was the day I quit trying to fit into a world that never really fit me._

But the phrase on the second, larger t-shirt totally confused him:  
_Welding is like sewing with fire._

“It’s been wonderful to see you again, Dennis.” Harry slid the tote bag straps onto one shoulder and carried the ugly lampshades in his other hand. Dennis had not placed the pair of them into the bottomless bag because of Beatrice’s presence. As Harry opened the shop door, he called over his shoulder, “Give my best to your mum and dad.”

“I didn’t know you knew Hadrian.” Beatrice replaced Dennis behind the counter. She was as curious as a cat and he knew he would have to tell her something to satisfy her inquisitiveness or she would nag at him for the remainder of his shift.

“I never made the connection. I’ve only ever known him as Harry. Never actually knew Harry was short for something else.” Dennis looked around the shop, hoping against hope that someone was ready to pay for their goods, but the place was quiet.

“Not to be rude, Denny, but it doesn’t seem you’d travel in the same social circles.”

“No, we don’t. We met at boarding school when I was eleven and Harry a few years older.” As the son of a milkman, Dennis knew his upbringing reflected his lack of social status. “I attended on scholarship and he was a legacy student. I’m embarrassed to admit it now, but my brother and I hero-worshiped him. We must have been right pains in the arse because we followed him everywhere, but Harry was always kind to me. 

“When Colin was murdered,” Dennis paused, a hitch in his voice. “Harry brought my brother home to us and helped my dad pay for the funeral. I haven’t seen him since.”

Beatrice rubbed the young man’s back, regretting that her innocent question had re-opened such a painful wound. 

“You’ve been collecting broken bits of shite for him for years. What does he do with all that rubbish?” Dennis finally blurted out, confronted by the sinking feeling that his hero’s mind had finally snapped. “The only things that make any sense are the t-shirts, even if they aren’t his size, because he could at least wear them.”

~*~*~*~*~*  
Standing in a long queue for glasses of freshly squeezed lemonade, Justin Finch-Fletchley wondered, for the umpteenth time, precisely how his little half-sister, Elizabeth, and her university roommate, Diana, had talked him into wasting his entire Saturday on this adventure. There was an air of excitement in the crowd as they meandered through rows and rows of overflowing tables set up along the inner and outer edges of a country horse track in what was advertised as the largest flea and antiques market in the region.

For weeks, Lizzie and Di had spoken of nothing but looking forward to a day of searching for vintage fashion, but to Justin, the idea of wearing another’s cast-off clothing was abhorrent. While he wasn’t against purchasing pre-owned items altogether, he preferred his to be certifiably antique in nature, not the jumbled clutter he was seeing. Once he finally got out of this interminable line, Justin planned to head to the center of the track, where the antiques vendors had congregated, and look for something useful or unusual to decorate his small flat. 

Ignoring the impatient grumbles of others in the queue, Justin was determined to just make the best of it. He’d already resigned himself to a day of being a pack mule for the girls, like the dutiful big brother that he was. Thankfully, the sun was out and there was no hint of clouds because rain would quickly turn that dirt track into a quagmire. 

No longer able to see his companions in the crowd, the former Hufflepuff turned his attention to the contents of the various tables and the people who frequented them. Nearly every station seemed to have at least one box filled with cheap paperback novels, most of them gaudy romances, half-arsed fantasy, or serial crime thrillers. He half-listened to the sounds of friendly negotiation spoken in a cacophony of foreign accents and regional dialects. 

His eyes lingered on a trio of tables crammed with bins and boxes of what Justin first thought was scrap metal but soon identified as new and used plumbing supplies, as well as a collection of nuts, bolts, nails, and screws. He casually eavesdropped in on a rather lively conversation between the elderly vendor and, judging from the straight shoulders and long black braid shot with thin strands of gray, a younger, but still mature, man.

“Ya know PVC’s the way to go, my friend,” the old man stated. “Lightweight and a helluva lot easier to use.”

“Don’t I know…but there’ll be none of that plastic shite for _his lordship_.” The bite in the man’s tone caused the older man to laugh, revealing the fellowship shared between skilled tradesmen and their mutual distain of unreasonable clients. “Wants naught but copper and brass on the estate.”

Continuing to people watch, Justin slowly crept further up in the queue. He still could not locate his sister or her friend. From his new position, he could now see the face of the tradesman, crouched down, picking through the contents of a bin beneath a second plumbing supply table. Justin stumbled over his own feet as he stared at the eerily familiar black hair, dark eyes, and hooked nose belonging to his hated former Potions professor. 

What was a potions master, especially _this_ potions master, doing at a country flea market sorting through a bin of used hex nuts?

Justin swallowed his panic as he looked at the man a second time, focusing on the sound of the man’s voice as he dickered over prices with the vendor. His friendly banter, in a thick Midlands accent, was so unlike the mocking articulation Professor Snape was known for. 

There was absolutely no way that that man was his former instructor, he finally decided. The always immaculately dressed Professor Snape would never own, let alone wear, faded denim jeans and a t-shirt proclaiming _My people skills are just fine. It’s my tolerance for idiots that needs work._ although he certainly would have agreed with the sentiment. 

It was said that every person had at least one doppelganger in the world, and Justin was certain he was looking at just such an occurrence. The dungeon bat’s twin looked up and their eyes met for a moment before the man returned to rifling through another bin. 

Justin’s attention moved away from the man and toward the large crowd, gasping when an arm suddenly wrapped around his waist.

“Sorry, Justin,” Di laughed as she bumped her hip against his taller form. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Thought you saw me.”

“It’s fine. My mind was wandering.” 

Justin was relieved when Di stepped back. She had flirted with him for months on end and, when she had received no interest from him in return, finally decided Justin must be a deeply closeted gay man and began to treat him just as a friend, to his immense relief. 

Justin felt no sexual attraction to either men or women, and never had. His asexuality was actually a blessing, he thought, because had he been sexually active, he carried the risk of creating a magical child. Given the harrowing experiences and continuing nightmares his brief foray into the magical world had caused him, there was no way he wanted to risk passing his cursed DNA onto another. He was seriously considering having himself sterilized.

He glanced over to the plumbing supply tables a final time before the queue moved past the old man’s display, but the doppelganger had disappeared. He couldn’t see him anywhere in the crowd.

“So, where is Lizzie anyway?” he asked, turning to his companion, putting all thoughts of the look-alike out of his mind.

“There’s a stall with racks of denim ‘round the bend. Liz was trying to get them to lower the price on an embroidered jean jacket. You know how tenacious she can be…I figured I’d come back to help you with the lemonade.”

Justin finally stepped up to the serving window of the food cart. 

“Three lemonades, please.” 

~*~*~*~*~*  
**2**

_“Do whatever the hell it takes to make you feel real again.”_  
– Pankhuri

Peering through the magnifier, Harry carefully attached the tiny nickel-plated brass sprocket using a miniscule screw. He checked the ease of movement before fine-tuning the tension. Once he was satisfied, he picked up another sprocket with tweezers and repeated the process.

He closed his eyes momentarily to rest them. Even with the magnifier, this much close work caused his vision to blur after a while. The bright task lights and the magnifying glass helped fight the eyestrain, but when working with the small watch gears and sprockets, he often had to remind himself to blink.

Harry studied the little creature, a winged dragon, that he had constructed out of the inside workings of discarded non-digital clocks, pocket watches and self-winding wrist watches. He turned the beast this way and that beneath the task lights and the magnifier before deciding it was complete. Perched on a knuckle of his pointer finger, the little dragon was no larger than the first two joints of his finger.

“How exquisite,” Severus spoke from the workshop door. Harry had been so focused on his tiny sculpture he hadn’t heard the dark wizard approach. “Will it be part of one of your automatons?”

“No. I planned this one to be free-standing and built in the ability for it to be self-adjustable. But that’s not to say I might not change my mind tomorrow.” Harry smiled as he carefully set the dragon down onto his worktable and turned the task lights off. He arched his back to stretch out the kinks.

“You’re back early. Was the flea market a waste of your time?”

Severus leaned against the doorjamb, crossing one denim-clad leg over the other, and smirked at the younger man.

“I’ve been gone over eight hours. Have you been locked in your workshop all day?”

“Not just my workshop.” Harry wrinkled his nose. “But I don’t think I’ve left the barn at all. Did a quick sort of all the items I collected from the charity shops yesterday, but I haven’t put anything away. I figured we could add whatever you gathered today to the piles and go from there.

“Oh, and I finally worked out what was causing the glitch in the tortoise. Pins in the bike chain were bent, making it catch on the rollers. Had to disassemble the damn thing to replace it. Do you want to see?” 

Harry’s excitement over his creations amused Severus. The older man gestured as if to say, ‘lead the way.’

~*~*~*~*~*  
Unlike the delicate dragon, Harry’s tortoise was another story. Constructed from upcycled automotive, motorcycle and bicycle parts, the replica was built to resemble a three-quarter-sized adult Galapagos Tortoise. Just over 100 centimeters (3 feet 4 inches) in length, the tortoise had a head, neck, legs and tail that moved in close approximation of a tortoise’s actual movements when Harry turned a key in its side, creating tension on an internal spring, thus causing the giant automaton to slowly lumber around in a large circle across the barn’s thick oak floor. 

Atop its metal shell of fused hubcaps, Harry had placed a thicket of life-like shrubs, wildflowers and grasses made from twisted bits of metal, wire and glass beads. Tucked into the vegetation was a scrap metal field mouse, a mixed-metal wren in a nest of bent screws and nails, and assorted insects built of beads, nails, and fine wire mesh. As the tortoise plodded in its circle, the woodland scene rocked from side to side. The field mouse popped out of a burrow and ran in a path around the shell’s circumference, built onto the aforementioned bicycle chain, as the bird stood up in her nest, revealing a trio of small glass eggs. The wings from the various flying insects, while not actually animated, quivered in the movements of the reptile, giving the illusion they were beating.

As the tortoise slowed to a stop, the mouse returned to its burrow and the bird settled back on her eggs. 

“It’s impressive work. When you first began researching tortoises, I didn’t think you’d ever be able to make the movements so life-like without resorting to magic,” Severus commented. “You have been busy. Did you at least remember to eat lunch?”

“Yes.” Harry levitated the heavy creation out of the flow of foot traffic and into a shadowy niche against the wall, beside several other inventions in various stages of completion. “We both know that a certain persistent house-elf inhabiting our kitchen made sure of it.” 

~*~*~*~*~*  
Severus reached into the outer pocket of his wizardspace satchel, removing what looked to be a handful of reddish-gold straws of varying lengths. There was a soft metallic tinkle as he dropped them at his feet. Drawing his wand, he directed his spell toward the scattered pile.

“ _Finite Incantatem_.” 

The straws enlarged, elongating into four different lengths of tarnished, paint speckled copper pipe. A second flick of the wand caused the pipes to slither beneath the legs of a table beside a pile of steel rebar. Delving into another outer pocket, Severus removed assorted copper and brass fittings and set them on a worktable beside Harry’s charity shop finds. Reaching in a third time, he removed a rust-speckled tea tin filled with used hex nuts of various sizes and metals.

“Rob a plumbing supply shop, did you?” Harry asked.

“Old man with a lot of junk, like to talk my ear off.”

“So, you went as Rus and not Severus?”

“Of course, I did.” Severus gave Harry his ‘you are an idiot’ look. He’d long since discovered he could barter lower prices at flea markets and car boot sales when he left his tailored clothing and snobbish demeanor behind.

“I saw Justin Finch-Fletchley at the flea market this morning.” Severus paused in emptying his satchel and looked directly at Harry. “He was there with two women.”

“Are you sure it was Justin? No one’s seen hide nor hair of Finch-Fletchley for years…not since the Ministry expelled all Muggleborn from Hogwarts and began the Purge.” Harry ran his hand through his hair. “We all thought he was dead. Did he see you?”

“Well…yes and no.” At Harry’s quizzical expression, Severus clarified his statement. 

“When I noticed him staring at me, I did a light surface scan of his thoughts. Based on my interest in scrap metal and this…” Severus gestured to the _…tolerance for idiots_ writing on his t-shirt. “Finch-Fletchley had convinced himself that I was merely a doppelganger of the Hogwarts dungeon bat and just dismissed me. He isn’t carrying a wand.”

“Foolish of him, but understandable, I suppose. He has been successfully missing for over eight years. I’ll need to owl Sue Bones…err Cornfoot…to let her know, though. She’ll be more than pleased to add another survivor to the list.”

As Severus emptied his satchel of mismatched silverware sets, cast metal vehicles, wooden pull toys, and other odd bits, Harry noted that the ‘idiot’ shirt was fading and starting to fray at the hems. It was the first of the silly t-shirts he gave to the older man when they began their unexpected cohabitation years before, and he knew for a fact that it was Severus’ favorite. He needed to search for a replacement soon.

The pair of wizards studied the miscellanea they had acquired in the past two days, sorted into rough piles of like items, certain that if one of them couldn’t find a use for an item, the other would find a way to upcycle it. Severus picked up one of the gaudy red lampshades and examined it.

“Well, the fabric is dry rotted, but the cage and beadwork are in excellent condition. Nice find.”

Harry beamed. Not everyone thought he had lost his mind.

~*~*~*~*~*  
Severus latched the barn door closed and walked to where Harry was standing, examining the rusted sculpture of a dragon made from horseshoes and scrap iron perched on a large rock beside the path leading to their residence. The dragon was rustic in design and the welds holding it together were amateurish and crude. It was so far removed from the highly detailed sculptures Harry was now creating, but the ungainly hulk held a special place in both of their hearts. 

When he had first taken ownership of the estate, a former horse farm, Harry had unearthed a pile of discarded horseshoes behind an outbuilding that had once housed a blacksmith’s workspace as well as the skeleton of an ancient tractor. Harry kept toying with the placement of the horseshoes, until one morning he created a pattern that looked a bit like dragon scales.

While Harry possessed very rudimentary welding skills, Severus had never held a welding torch before in his life, but between them they brought the crude dragon to life. It was difficult, frustrating, and, in the end, life changing. As they taught themselves and slowly fine-tuned their technique, both wizards grew to appreciate the art of metal crafting. Their personal relationship also strengthened as they learned to work as one on a project that, for once, did not hold life or death consequences if they failed. 

Although the dragon was their first creative collaboration, it would not be their last.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Severus asked. Harry often withdrew into his thoughts if not socially engaged.

“The rust is beginning to corrode some of the main structure now. I was just wondering what spell to use to preserve it before it collapses under its own weight. Or do you think we should just move it out of the elements?” Harry touched one of the weather-weakened metal wings.

“Let me think on that.” Severus’ quick mind thought of and rejected several common preservation charms in his arsenal. The more common spells would try to revert the recycled parts back into their original forms and that, obviously, would be counterproductive. “We could just let the ugly brute oxidize back into the earth.”

“Not going to happen.” Harry gave the sculpture a final, gentle pat before changing the subject. “It’s nearly time for dinner, and I really need to get cleaned up.”

“I could use a shower as well. Do you have any idea what is on the menu tonight?”

“Chickpea curry.” Harry headed toward the house. He paused. “And what did the evil carnivore have for lunch while he was out? I’d bet you a galleon that you didn’t stop for a kale smoothie…” 

“That would be a fool’s bet and you know it. I had a burger and a side of chips, thank you very much.” 

In all honesty, Harry did not begrudge Severus his dietary choices. He even envied them to a certain extent. Ever since the final, horrendous battle at Hogwarts, Harry had been unable to consume any meat at all. He knew his newfound aversion was psychological, but it did not change the outcome in the least. Roasted beef and pork brought forth memories of the burnt flesh of wizards, centaurs and other land creatures, baked poultry reminded him of the poor birds trapped in the burning owlery and the odor of fried seafood relived the memories of the floating corpses of merpeople and grindylows in the Black Lake. 

Never having had the luxury of being a picky eater as a child, Harry just adapted to a predominantly vegetarian diet. He occasionally consumed dairy products and could still eat eggs if they were hidden in a dish. He had certainly not demanded that others hold to the same dietary limitations, but had been extraordinarily pleased when Severus, also not a particularly picky eater, just went along with whatever showed up on his plate. 

“But chickpea curry?” Severus finally asked. “Where did _that_ come from?”

“Kreacher has become addicted to cooking programs on the telly. I saw part of the episode where it was being prepared and, to be honest, it did look rather tasty.”

“Walburga must be rolling in her grave…” Severus muttered and fell in step with the other man. Sometimes he wondered when he had stepped into the asylum.

~*~*~*~*~*  
Harry laid out sleep pants and a white t-shirt on the bed before padding his way into the adjoining bath to take a quick shower. Purebloods would be aghast that he intended to dress so informally for dinner, but Harry didn’t give a damn about their archaic etiquette rules. It was still early evening and hours away from bedtime, but he had had a tiring day and just wanted to curl up in comfort and spend time with Severus. 

When Harry returned from his shower, towel wrapped around his hips, he noticed immediately that there had been a change made to his choice of wardrobe. The white shirt was gone, a light grey one was in its place. 

Harry’s curiosity was piqued. Severus so rarely reciprocated in the exchange of t-shirts. The grey shirt was decorated with a row of cartoon fruits and a row of cartoon cows and chickens, the phrase _Eat Fruit…Not Friends_ nestled between them.

Harry slipped it over his head and headed down for what he knew would be a delicious curry.

~*~*~*~*~*  
**3**

_“I know my worth. I’ve paid dearly for every ounce of it.”_  
– Alfa

Dudley Dursley parked his Land Rover beside the large barn on his cousin’s estate, contemplating the path his life had taken.

He had to be the only living creature to have survived an encounter with a Dementor and ended up the better for it. On that long ago summer day, defenseless against a creature he could neither see nor fight as it was filling his mind with horrors and stealing his very breath away, his life had been saved by his freakish cousin and the crazy cat woman of Wisteria Walk. Harry, whom he had viciously bullied for the greater part of their young lives, had no reason to save him, had no reason not to let him die, but save him he did. Harry’s selfless act, on top of the stark and repulsive truths the Dementor had drilled into his brain, began to change Dudley in ways he had never imagined.

And then Harry had been threatened with expulsion from school and brought up on charges by the magical government for using underage magic against the Dementors, something that amused his parents to no end, but had shocked Dudley. Was his life worth nothing at all to witches and wizards?

When Dudley returned to Smeltings for his next semester and entered the gym to resume boxing, he was met by the coach, who told him bluntly that ‘he would no longer waste his time coaching a bully and a loser.’ Instead of exploding into a temper tantrum like the old Dudley Dursley, he calmly told the man he was tired of being ‘a pig in a wig’ and asked the man’s help to get control of his health and his temper. With the assistance of the school nurse, the coach and his own hard work, the weight began to slowly drop off and as the numbers on the scale diminished, his coping mechanisms increased. 

As his self-esteem improved, so did his focus on schoolwork. One of his greatest personal breakthroughs occurred the day he realized that there was much more to computers than word processing, games and internet pornography, and that changed his career trajectory away from dutifully following in his father’s footsteps in Sales and on to a university degree in Computer Science.

But the thing that opened his eyes the most was when he returned to Privet Drive for a school holiday, immensely proud of his slimmer physique and improved grades, to find his parents unwilling to support the new him. They, plain and simple, wanted their old ‘Diddy Dumpling’ back and fought him on every front. After days of dietary and social sabotage, both open and covert, he realized he was now being subjected to some of the same obstacles his cousin had faced for years.

While Dudley still loved his parents, he realized he did not like them very much. Once his eyes had been opened to their close-minded, abusive side, and, sadly, the recognition of his own shortcomings, it was impossible to put that knowledge back into Pandora’s box. The passage of time and real-life expectancies caused a natural distancing to occur between them and that distance eventually permitted him to lead a life pretty much on his own terms. 

A sharp rap on the window beside his head jolted the man back to the present. Harry’s partner, Severus ‘Rus’ Prince stood beside the Land Rover, inexplicably wearing a t-shirt that proclaimed that _Welding is like sewing with fire._

“Fall asleep, did you?” Severus asked him, blandly. 

Dudley had long since given up trying to understand the dynamics of Severus and Harry’s partnership, but even he could see that it worked. He found that he liked the older man’s sarcastic wit, especially when it wasn’t directed at him. And what he found especially fascinating, was that his mother seemed to hate Severus even more than she hated Harry, and Dudley never thought something like that would ever be possible.

He opened the door to his vehicle and climbed out.

“I stopped at the Post Office on the way in, Rus. There are some packages in the back.”

~*~*~*~*~*  
Harry was working on one of his automatons in the natural light provided by the open barn doors and windows. The sculpture - a vaguely Victorian-stylized female - was holding in one hand an authentic ornate antique bird cage containing a bird formed of bent silverware, its fork-tine claws wrapped firmly around the hanging perch. She stood nearly as tall as Harry. 

Dudley could tell the woman’s head and upper body had been constructed from pieces of a wooden female mannequin, but the arm holding the birdcage had been replaced with a mechanized contraption mimicking the look and function of human bones and joints, ending with a wooden hand and wrist. Her dress was constructed of a large open metal cage to which more than a hundred kitchen utensils, cooking gadgets, and serving pieces had been attached to mimic a skirt. Her bodice/corset was created primarily from dinner knives and forks. The mannequin’s original wig was gone, replaced with tresses created from thin chains and barbed wire twisted into the approximation of a messy bun, anchored by a smart hat made from a charger plate and a hexagonal lacquered tea tin. She did not appear to have any legs or feet but moved on small casters attached to the hem of her skirt.

Like many sculptures built in the Steampunk style, Dudley thought her hauntingly beautiful as well as vaguely disturbing. Harry was carefully attaching an extravagant Victorian-style choker around her throat, created from who knew what materials, and Dudley wondered, not for the first time, if Harry’s creative repurposing of utter rubbish harkened back to his only having cast off and broken toys to play with as a child.

Harry looked up as his cousin’s shadow fell across his creation.

“Hey, Dud.”

~*~*~*~*~*  
Dudley called it Steampunk. Harry had never even heard of the term when he began creating his sculptures using bits and pieces of recycled components and was rather surprised to discover many, but not all, of his creations would be considered part of this cultural movement. His clockwork beasts and his automatons certainly fit the criteria for Steampunk design, but the birds, beasts, and flowers he created by either welding or bending silverware did not.

He had laughed when Dudley first called up photographs of Steampunk fashion on his mobile phone. The Victorian era styles, sometimes blended with both 1800’s Industrial Revolution and/or post-apocalyptic influences, strongly reminded him of the wizarding clothing he had pushed to the back of his wardrobe. He and Severus could easily wear their dress or dueling robes to a Steampunk convention and not stand out at all.

~*~*~*~*~*  
As Dudley wandered through the old horse barn, searching for new sculptures to photograph for the website he had created to help Harry and Severus advertise their artwork, the two wizards sorted through the letters and packages he had picked up for them.

Harry was especially anxious to open a medium-sized, lightweight box he had received from Kyoto, Japan. 

He had purchased three “collectible” porcelain dolls for two pounds each from an estate sale a year earlier and had fallen in love with their androgynous little faces and sprite-like bodies. Standing little over 20.5cm/8in, their fully jointed bodies were the perfect size to reuse in a series of fairy sculptures he was creating. 

Realizing that the figures had been produced more than twenty years prior, he began to correspond with a representative of the small company who had originally produced them via e-mail. He soon learned that the limited edition doll had not been a particularly popular model, due to the same plainness of the features Harry had liked so much, so she was no longer being produced, but the representative thought a few dolls might remain in an out-of-the-way corner of the warehouse. Before she mounted a search, however, she needed to see what he intended to do with her company’s doll first.

Harry immediately sent her several images of the sculpture he was working on. The fairy was perched on the handle of a battered and heavily tarnished copper watering can. The little doll had been positioned as if she was in the process of landing, delicate fine mesh wings open in mid-flutter and clothed in a skirt and cap resembling bluebell blossoms. 

The representative thought the piece was lovely and was pleased to see that he was treating their doll in a respectable fashion, but she was required to present Harry’s request to purchase the discontinued model to the owner. As he had not heard back from them for months, he determined it just was not to be. Swallowing his disappointment, he began an internet search for the doll on popular selling sites but had so far only located one other.

And then, out of the blue, Harry received a letter, not from the doll company, but from the little doll’s creator, a Mr. Yamaguchi. The designer, long since retired, had retained ownership of his creation and was delighted that Harry wanted to give his ‘little girls’ a home. The only thing Mr. Yamaguchi asked in return was that Harry send him photographs of the sculptures he used them in.

Carefully removing the packing material, Harry discovered three dolls in their original cardboard boxes with their historically accurate silk costumes in pristine condition, as well as one unclothed doll, and a final pair in pieces, needing to have their parts strung. Harry smiled as he repacked his precious cargo. What a wonderful gift Mr. Yamaguchi had given him.

~*~*~*~*~*  
“Dud,” Harry called out. “One of these packages is addressed to you.”

“Nah, it’s for you. Remembered you telling me you were having trouble sourcing your clock parts because everything is going digital. Found a place online that supposedly sells used parts in 10-gram bags. Ordered one bag of gears, one of watch faces and one that’s supposed to have those old winding turnkeys. No idea if it’s shite or not. Shipping cost more than the bags themselves.” Dudley called back from the door to Harry’s workroom. 

He had always been intrigued by the sheer volume of objects neatly stored in clear or labeled containers on floor to ceiling shelving. Harry even had a library ladder installed, but Dudley knew it was mostly for show. The jars of glass eyes and the dismembered doll parts were a little bizarre, but Harry knew where every little thing, down to the last iridescent bead, was stored. Dudley wandered over to a bookcase containing small-scale completed pieces and Harry’s works in progress. 

He picked up an odd piece, tucked into a darkened corner, that did not look as if it even belonged to the collection. Dudley thought it was supposed to be an owl, but its construction was highly amateurish, especially alongside Harry’s tiny intricate clockwork dragon and folded cutlery birds. Its body consisted of a fire-tarnished cast metal tea trivet designed to resemble a round open-work lacy doily. Two forks had been jammed through openings at the bottom, the curved tines resembling its feet and claws and the handles protruding through to the back acted as a stand keeping it mostly vertical. A butter knife beak was inserted between the pair of fluted tart tins and mismatched button eyes. 

“Harry, this is cute. Did Teddy make it for you?”

Harry looked up and paled, the bag of watch faces slipping through his fingers and on to the floor.

“Harry? Are you alright?”

“Sorry.” Harry bent to pick up the bag. “She’s the first sculpture I ever remember making. She’s made of items I scavenged from a smoldering debris pile days after the Battle for Hogwarts.”

“She?” Dudley asked. Harry rarely spoke of the magical war or his part in ending it.

“Hedwig. She’s in remembrance of Hedwig,” Harry replied quietly. He never had the chance to collect the body of his beloved owl to give her the proper heroine’s sendoff she deserved. 

~*~*~*~*~*  
Dudley cursed, ducking as an enormous barn owl swooped in through a barn window, a massive wing just missing his head. Harry and Severus rarely used magic in his presence, so it was easy to forget that they were wizards. Unexpected episodes of blatant magic still startled him.

“Good Morning, Iris,” Harry called to the bird, extending an arm for her to perch on. He unfastened a scroll tied to one of her legs. “Does Neville want you to wait for a reply?”

Iris bobbed her head, barking softly.

“Well, you know where we keep the buffet, so go have yourself a bite and a nap.”

Iris slowly blinked before launching herself back through the window, heading for a welcome perch in the owlery. Harry knew Kreacher would make certain she was properly watered and fed. 

Post owls. Dudley just shook his head. In the day of telephones, mobile phones and the internet, the wizarding method of communication was archaic and so very ineffective. How many letters, packages, and owls themselves were lost every year, he wondered.

But given the difficulty Harry and Severus had using some electrical devices, perhaps wizarding society would always be somewhat incapable of embracing modern technology, even if they ever condescended to acknowledge mundane expertise in the first place. As it was, the only way either wizard could use a mobile, or the battle-hardened laptop he had built for them, was by wearing thin leather gloves to deaden their magic enough not to fry the units.

“Dud.” Harry skimmed over Neville’s parchment, not looking pleased at all. “I have to look over this and get back to Nev with an answer. The old guard, bloody bastards, are trying to sneak some totally unacceptable legislation through the Wizengamot on Tuesday and Neville, as acting proxy for House Potter, needs my input.”

“That’s fine. I’ll go wander in the gardens. Has Rus planted anything new?”

“He’s just added a quintet of _Echinacea purpurea_ to age in the potions garden.” Harry replied, distracted.

“Added a what to a who?” Dudley spluttered, and Harry looked up, realizing his cousin’s confusion. He was not used to thinking in terms of potion ingredients.

“Five,” Harry laughed. “He’s added five purple coneflowers to the garden.”

“Why didn’t you just call them that in the first place?” Dudley muttered. “Wait, Rus actually painted something purple?”

“Of course not. It’s just the name of the flower. The petals are brushed copper, and the cone florets are made of brass and copper hex nuts. Given a few weeks, it should start to take on the green patina Severus’ work is known for.” Harry turned his attention back to the missive.

~*~*~*~*~*  
Wind ruffled through Dudley’s fine blond hair as he looked over the landscape of the former horse farm. Close to the house were three adjacent gardens – flower, herb, and vegetable – and he could not remember if the herb garden or the flower garden was the designated potions garden. It didn’t matter to him, though, because it was a pleasant day and he enjoyed the fresh air, something he missed cooped up in the city. At a distance he could see the spinning blades of three wind turbines used to power the irrigation system, and fields of varying vegetation. He knew Harry leased out acres of the old pastureland to his friend Neville’s horticultural business.

Neville. Severus. Hadrian. As a child he would have ridiculed those names, which was rich considering he’d been saddled with the moniker of Dudley, but he found it natural to shorten their names to Nev and Rus. And there was no way in hell he would ever refer to his specky little git of a cousin as _Hadrian_.

Dudley easily found the echi-purple-whatever flowers but did not take any photos of them. The chest-high flowers were still too new, too bright copper shiny, and he knew Severus would not be pleased if he posted them to the website until the elements properly tarnished them.

The flower sculptures were a bit of a surprise to anyone who assumed they knew Severus based upon interacting with his severe potions master persona. Often made overscale, the plants had been stripped down to their basic components, so modern in appearance they often looked as if they had been drawn in pen and ink instead of welded metal.

He stood beneath a trio of pod flowers made of wrought iron, towering over his head. With their individual petals of iron spikes as long as Dudley’s forearm, the bristly flowers could have been representations of allium heads or puffs of dandelion fluff. Whatever sort of flowers they were, they were extremely popular and there was a long waiting list to purchase a set.

But Severus was not a very prolific sculptor. He just did not have the time to devote more than a day or two to his art each week. Some weeks he was unable to spend any time at all on creative pursuits.

Still a full-time potions master, he split the bulk of his time between potions research and brewing custom medicines for the small mail-order brewery he ran from the basement of the main house using many of the raw materials grown on the estate.

Dudley stopped at the door to the former blacksmith’s building that was primarily used as a welding workshop now. He slipped in the partially opened entrance and watched Severus work in the semi-darkness. Sparks illuminated the gloom as Severus’ attention was on his welding. Dudley snapped a few photographs and slipped back out the door. The older man did not like to be disturbed while he was working and did not enjoy being photographed even on a good day.

Dudley took a seat beneath an arbor Harry and Severus had created together. The small structure was created out of recycled wrought iron fence panels and decorated with a series of flowering vines and little birds scavenged from cast-off automotive parts.

He viewed the images he had captured with his digital camera, deleting several immediately. One of the candid images of Severus welding was amazing. With only the bright ball of sparks lighting the scene, the pitch black of the iron against the torch flame, and the anonymity of the welding mask, only the phrase on the t-shirt was illuminated in the dark shadows. 

Severus certainly was sewing with fire, he thought.

Dudley jumped as Kreacher popped into view. The elderly house-elf handed him a mug of tea and a sandwich on a plate.

“Thank you, Kreacher. Is that chicken?” Dudley asked.

“Master Hadrian’s Cousin would prefer cress?” Kreacher rumbled.

“Oh, no, this is fine. I like chicken. I just wasn’t expecting to eat meat at Harry’s house.”

“Master Severus, Kreacher, and the owlies likes their meats.” Kreacher simply stated and popped away. 

What went on in the kitchen behind Master Hadrian’s back was none of his concern was left unsaid, Dudley thought as he bit into a delicious chicken salad sandwich.

He checked for messages on his mobile and responded to a few. Noting the time, he realized he would need to leave soon if he had any hope of returning to the city while it was still light. 

From a distance he could see Harry and Severus in deep conversation just beyond the barn. Harry held the scroll of parchment in his hands. Dudley wondered, based on their serious expressions, if they were discussing the political issue that had cropped up. He knew they both held seats in the wizarding equivalent of Parliament, specifically the House of Lords. And Harry, as Potter of Potter and Black of Black, held two. 

Dudley often wondered if his parents comprehended how much power, both political and economic, their unwanted nephew now possessed. It was a good thing Harry was weary of fighting and preferred his quiet life, because had he been vindictive, he could easily obliterate Petunia and Vernon Dursley with a whisper in the right someone’s ear or a casual flick from his wrist.

He had obliterated a certain Dark Lord eight years before, after all.

~*~*~*~*~*  
**4**

_“I have traveled through madness to find me.”_  
– Danny Alexander

Severus brushed his hair until it was smooth. The grey hair at his temples gave him a distinguished appearance, but that would all be undone once he put on the gaudy plum colored Wizengamot robes. Since only one or two of the members in the high court possessed the proper complexion to carry off the color in the first place, fifty of them dressed in that unfortunate color was just annoying.

He stepped into the bedroom and stopped, staring at an identical plum robe laid out on the coverlet. During the past eight years, Harry had slowly withdrawn from wizarding society and Severus could not remember the last time he had attended a Wizengamot meeting in person. For years, the reinstated Andromeda Tonks served as proxy for the Black seat and Neville Longbottom for the Potter seat.

He had been in direct communication with both of his proxies since the Pureblood plot had come to light, and they had discussed the strategies he wished them to pursue. So, why was the robe laid out on the bed?

Harry sat at his dressing table; his dark hair was swept neatly up into a bun high on the back of his head. He was in the process of securing his hair with a pair of ornate chopsticks. He was already clad in his dragonhide boots and underrobe.

“When did you decide to attend the session?” Severus asked.

“I don’t really have a choice. Andromeda fire called me less than an hour ago. Teddy was exposed to dragon pox at a birthday party, so they will be under mandatory quarantine for at least a fortnight. The outcome of this vote is too crucial to leave the Black seat empty, and it’s too late to line up another proxy.”

“I could…”

“No, while we’ve both declared our houses to be Neutral, the idiots still think we hate one another, so that would cause too many questions. If I’d had more time, I would have contacted Greengrass.”

“Would have been a good choice. He’s considered both impartial and neutral…You know it’ll be a madhouse today. Will you be all right?” 

“I won’t like it, but I’ll deal with it.” Harry’s introverted nature would certainly be put to the test.

As Harry slipped into the Wizengamot robe, Severus could not help but notice the plum robe looked just as atrocious on his young partner as it did on him.

~*~*~*~*~*  
Because their relationship was not public knowledge, Harry Apparated to the Ministry of Magic a full ten minutes after Severus. They were both immediately drawn into conversations with members who shared differing political ideologies.

A low hum rippled through the chambers as witches and wizards became aware of Harry’s presence. He was infamous for becoming a recluse after the war, and that he had come out of hiding for this particular session triggered numerous rounds of speculation. 

For the Pureblood idealists attempting to push through their agenda undetected, his presence did not bode well.

Harry exchanged pleasantries with several of his Hogwarts contemporaries before joining a discussion led by former Ravenclaw Roger Davies and, oddly enough, Draco Malfoy. Now employed as barristers for the same law firm, they had been the first to notice some of the wording in the proposed new law was ambiguous and held possibly sinister ramifications. Those concerns triggered alarm bells in many members of the Wizengamot, and not just those from Light-leaning houses.

The proposed law before the Wizengamot that day seemed, on the surface, to be benign in nature. It appeared to be the solution to a problem that plagued the wizarding world for centuries. Ten-year-old Muggleborn children and unaffiliated Halfblooded children, specifically those raised in the Muggle world, would be assigned a sponsor family to help ease their transition first into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and then into British wizarding society at large. Wonderful, everyone thought, because it was well known that the non-magically-raised children faced a distinct disadvantage against their wizarding peers and many never caught up. With the low birthrates and the high casualties of the past two wars decimating the old families, wizarding Britain needed every magical person, regardless of their blood status, to remain in their society and not flee back to the security of the mundane world.

But buried in the convoluted wording of the law were terrible, horrible, deliberately concealed obligations. If the Wizengamot passed the law as currently written, Muggleborn and Halfblood children would essentially be locked into what amounted to indentured servitude to their sponsor families for their life and possibly the lives of their children.

Once the gavel dropped, the Wizengamot chamber exploded into chaos.

~*~*~*~*~*  
To the surprise of no one, the proposed law was sent back to committee to be rewritten.

~*~*~*~*~*  
Harry looked up from his breakfast as the _Daily Prophet_ post owl landed on the back of the chair beside him. He placed a knut into the little pouch around her ankle and the bird released her hold on his newspaper. Given the choice of a slice of fruit or owl kibble, the owl caught the kibble in her beak and launched out the window.

Harry shrugged. Sometimes they took the fruit.

He did not usually read the newspaper while eating, because it often caused him indigestion, so he set the newspaper beside Severus’ plate. The older wizard had been up late into the night, brewing a potion that needed to be brewed during a specific phase of the moon, so he wasn’t certain he would even see him before lunch.

Harry poured himself a fresh cup of tea. Deciding not to delay the inevitable, he reached for the morning edition of _Prophet_ to see what kind of spin the muckraking journal put on the free-for-all that occurred during the Wizengamot session the day before. Based on the bold headline, they did not disappoint. 

_Brawl in the Wizengamot!_  
_Just what are they trying to pull?_

Harry had just started reading the article when a sidebar headline caught his eye.

_The Chosen One: Finally Accepting His Responsibilities? See Page 2._

Shite, Harry thought as his marvelous breakfast began to sour in his stomach. He scanned the article and, though he fully expected the hatchet job he received, it still hurt. They skimmed over a convoluted version of his life that he barely recognized, using all those titles he hated so much - The Boy-Who-Lived, Youngest Seeker in 100 years, Tri-Wizard Champion, The Chosen One, The Boy-Who-Conquered - conveniently leaving out the years the newspaper had ridiculed him as The Boy-Who-Lied, questioned his mental stability, and had labeled him Fugitive #1 while he was Horcrux hunting and dodging Snatchers during the Purge.

And then they began to scrutinize his life choices after the fall of ‘Lord Thingy.’ They attacked his decision not to accept Minister of Magic Shacklebolt’s generous offer to join the Auror Corps without passing his NEWTS first. His well thought out decision to complete his Hogwarts education instead was portrayed as dereliction of his duties to the wizarding world. Then they condemned him for abandoning his social and political obligations by turning his considerable Wizengamot duties over to proxies, and all but disappearing from magical life.

But the thing that pissed Harry off the most were quotes from Ronald Bilius Weasley stating that the war had changed his ‘best friend’ Harry into someone totally unrecognizable, that he had snubbed his friends and callously rejected his fiancée. He went on to criticize Harry for his selfishness, for living off his inherited wealth rather than hold down a proper job as honest wizards did.

The article ended with Harry’s sudden appearance at the Wizengamot session, emerging as a hero, once again, to aid defenseless Muggleborns and Halfbloods. Then the journalist blathered on, expressing hopes that Harry Potter was finally ready to rejoin the society he had rejected.

And people wondered why Harry had distanced himself from the small-minded witches and wizards of Britain.

~*~*~*~*~*  
**5**

_“Maybe life isn’t about avoiding the bruises,_  
_maybe it’s about collecting the scars to prove we showed up for it.”_  
\- Unknown

Tea forgotten, Harry sat at the table with his head in his hands. On some level, he had known that retaking his seats on the Wizengamot would cause a reaction, but for some inexplicable reason, he truly had not expected this.

Truth be told, Ron’s betrayal wasn’t entirely a surprise and Harry often questioned if he had ever truly been _his_ friend to begin with. Ginny, never his fiancée or even much of a girlfriend, had an unhealthy obsession with the myth of The Boy-Who-Lived, not the living and breathing Harry, and he wondered if Ron’s ‘friendship’ had been built on that same delusional footing.

“How fucking dare you. I don’t care how well you think you used to know me, Ron,” Harry thought. “You’re not in my life now and haven’t been for years, so you don’t know anything about me.”

But Ron _was_ correct in one respect. The war _had_ changed Harry. However distant their connection, Harry _had_ grown up unknowingly sharing a mind space with Tom Riddle’s Horcrux and it _had_ influenced the way he thought and the way he acted. When Death took the Horcrux in his scar for payment, the resurrected Harry was alone in his mind for the first time since that horrible October evening in 1981 and he was left feeling oddly bereft, unable to determine just what was wrong.

Harry had wandered the ruins of Hogwarts for days, unable to eat, unable to sleep, filled with an emptiness that he did not understand and did not know how to fill. He had foolishly hoped that now that he had fulfilled the damned prophecy by ending both the Dark Lord and his reign of terror, he would be left alone to mourn his dead and to be permitted to begin living his own life.

As Harry struggled to find balance, the wizarding world kept pushing in, continuing to attempt to force their own agendas on him. While Shacklebolt’s Auror offer was generous, it was a blatant political move as well. What better way to exploit the public adoration of your hero than to capture him in a web of Ministry control? Pre-war Harry would have eagerly jumped at the chance to follow in his father’s footsteps, but post-war _Hadrian_ was tired of killing, tired of expectations being heaped upon his too slight shoulders.

And he was inundated with owls, so many, many owls. He found himself, once again, the center of everyone’s universe, and all he needed was time to take a breath. As Harry desperately tried to find peace, the only thing he knew, for certain, was that he had no intention of ever again being trapped in a cage of another’s making. Never again would he play the role of a brash Gryffindor. 

Harry wandered for hours on end over the school grounds, which were an oasis from the insanity that threatened to overwhelm him at every turn. Early one dark morning, he followed a dull glow in the distance, discovering the still smoldering remains of a collapsed tower. Seeking warmth in the cold darkness, Harry crouched beside a debris pile in the hopes of driving the chill away.

Unconsciously, he began to fiddle with little bits of wreckage, lining two forks beside one another tines facing downward. He knocked ashes from a pair of fluted tart tins and positioned them at the top of the fork handles. A shiny metal button caught his eye, and he dropped it into one of the tart tins for safekeeping. He glanced down at the randomly placed items and was struck at how much they resembled an owl. He focused back to the debris pile to find his tatty bird a body…

“Purrrr? Purrrr?”

Harry jolted back to the present, finding himself nose to beak with a puzzled Iris. Neville’s owl waved her extended leg for him to untie the post.

‘Sorry, Girl,” he said as he gave her chest feathers a gentle scratch after relieving her of her burden. Iris gave him a cool look before snatching a sliced berry from his forgotten breakfast plate and flying off in search of the elderly house-elf and the fresh chunks of raw meat he always provided.

Harry smiled. He wasn’t an idiot. He had always known Kreacher did not keep a meat-free kitchen.

~*~*~*~*~*  
Harry untied Neville’s scroll. A torn and wrinkled page from the _Daily Prophet_ had been included in the bundle. He smirked; Neville must have crumpled the page into a tight ball before smoothing it back out. 

_Harry,_

_Heads up if you have not already read this shite._

_I know that you are probably hurt and angry right now, and you have every right to feel that way, but keep in mind that everyone does not deserve to know the real you. If the mindless idiots want to criticize who they think you are, let them. Your real friends know the truth._

_And speaking of ‘real’ friends, Weasley has once again proved how much of an idiot he is. You are not the only wizard or witch to be changed by war. Merlin knows it certainly changed me. Somehow, Ron has never managed to grow up. He cannot seem to accept that certain things can never, will never, go back to how he thinks they should be._

_I know you once thought you, Hermione and Ron would always be the best of friends but imagine life as pages in a novel. Some of the people thought to be important to the plot were never meant to appear in more than a chapter or two. You and Ron are no longer friends, but you not enemies either. You and Ron are just a pair of strangers that share some of the same memories._

_On another note, I have been approached to join the committee to re-write that Merlin-be-damned legislation. I will be contacting you soon to get your thoughts on it._

_Neville_

Harry set the letter aside, feeling slightly better. Neville was ten thousand times the friend Ron had ever been.

~*~*~*~*~*  
A second owl glided through the window and Harry sighed, thinking he was going to get buried under owl post because of the damned newspaper articles, but then he got his emotions back on track. Owls had to be individually keyed in to be able to pass through their wards, unknown owls and howlers were re-directed to a drop box run by a disabled ex-Auror and screened for ill intent before being either forwarded to the proper recipient or destroyed. Any fan mail they received was, for the most part, answered by Parvati Parikh nee Patil, who especially loved writing to small children while being able to stay at home with her own brood.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Harry addressed the owl he recognized as belonging to Hermione. Sherlock did not even entertain the thought of a fruit snack; he knew exactly where the good stuff was kept.

_Dear Harry,_

_Just a quick note to let you know I am thinking of you._

_I would imagine you have already seen_ the Prophet _this morning. The newspaper, if you can even call it that, has undoubtedly set a new low. Even Skeeter in her heyday would at least string a few actual facts in the story along with her fabrications. Hopefully, for the sake of your sanity, this rubbish will be forgotten by tomorrow._

_And they wonder why you rarely appear in public anymore. You are certainly not sitting on your arse, living off your inheritances. Anyone who knows you knows you’d go mad without something to keep your hands and your brain occupied. Fools, the lot of them._

_As far as the quotes by ‘your best friend’…what an idiot! Ignore him. Thank God you made me see reason seven years ago. If I had actually married that thickheaded peabrain, I would have surely poisoned him or castrated him by now and you would be visiting me in Azkaban._

_On a lighter note, I found this t-shirt at my favorite non-magical bookstore and I immediately thought of you. I really hope you like it._

_I am looking forward to our monthly lunch this Friday. Same place, same time?_

_Love, Hermione_

Harry tapped a little fabric square Spellotaped to the bottom of the note. He laughed when he read the words on the resized t-shirt.

 _Introverts unite!_  
_We’re here. We’re uncomfortable._  
_And we want to go home._

~*~*~*~*~*  
Severus was livid when he read the newspaper. He summoned pen, ink and parchment and began rapidly scribbling a letter.

“If you’re writing _The Prophet_ , you might as well save your ink,” Harry bit out.

“I wouldn’t waste my time corresponding with them. I am, to paraphrase William Shakespeare, planning to ‘cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war’.” Severus savagely dotted an ‘i.’

“Oookay. And that means what?”

“This letter is to Flint, Umfraville, Clearwater, Kirke, and Urquhart, Attorneys at Law. I plan to have them issue a Cease and Desist Order against the _Daily Prophet_ to start and then… well, Umfraville and Kirke do have quite the reputation for evisceration. I don’t envy anyone going up against them.”

“Thank you, Severus. I am so tired of fighting all the time. It’s nice, for once, to have someone fight for me,” Harry said. “Tea?”

~*~*~*~*~*  
Ron Weasley strode across the Ministry of Magic atrium on the way to the lifts. Other Ministry employees seemed to be giving him a wide berth for some reason that morning, but he was pleased with himself. He had gotten his name in _The Prophet_ and had managed to stick it to that worthless Potter at the same time. 

Ron paused to watch an altercation between Susan Cornfoot, Second Assistant to The Minister of Magic and a _Daily Prophet_ reporter. He wondered how long she planned to work because she was very late in her pregnancy. He didn’t envy the reporter because Susan had quite the redheaded temper.

“…That article was incorrect and irresponsible,” Susan was saying. “If you truly wanted to know where Harry Potter has been, you should have bloody well asked Harry Potter and not someone that doesn’t know a thing about it. He has not cut off his friends, he never had a fiancée, and he is not sitting on his arse at his country estate. He performs an essential task for the Ministry and has done so since the end of the war.”

Ron moved closer to the pair to hear them better. Potter was working for the Ministry?

“So, what is this mystery task he’s performing?” the reporter asked, scribbling in his notepad.

“Mr. Potter finds Muggleborns who were forced to flee during the Purge.” Susan told him, stretching the truth a little. Harry did not work for the Ministry and only contacted Susan when he ran across a fellow escapee, out of their friendship and his respect for her late Aunt Amelia.

“Surely there can’t still be that many out there. If they haven’t turned up by now, they’re dead,” the reporter scoffed. Really, who cared about a few missing Mud..Muggleborns.

“You’re wrong,” Susan snapped. “It’s taken eight years, but we’ve managed to track down the fate of all but a dozen, dead and alive. Just days ago, Harry found one of my close school friends, a fellow Hufflepuff. I am so grateful to hear he survived. 

“The _Daily Prophet_ slandered a war hero for no reason at all, except for profit.” Susan leaned nose to nose with the reporter and snarled. “You bloody well owe him a retraction!

“And you, Ronald Weasley, you reprehensible toerag! Is it any wonder Harry’s cut you out of his life? You handed him the bloody scissors!” Susan angrily flounced past a startled Ron, as fast as her gravid body let her.

And what Ron didn’t realize was that confrontation would be the best his day was going to get, especially after his mother and brothers read the morning news.

Across the atrium, two Unspeakables, hidden behind their foreboding robes, exchanged glances before hurrying to catch a waiting lift. As the door closed with only the pair of them as passengers, they both burst out into peals of laughter, contradicting their sinister appearance.

“Sweet Circe, Hermione. I didn’t know little Susie Bones had it in her. I know you’re in regular contact with him, so which ‘Puff did Harry find?” Terry Boot asked, forgoing the distortion charm that usually disguised his voice.

“Finch-Fletchley…Justin. Found him over the weekend. Harry just ran into Dennis Creevey again, too. Sue’s going to be disappointed because he doesn’t think either of them will ever return to the fold. He’s already cautioned her not to try to contact Finch-Fletchley, the damage is just too great.”

~*~*~*~*~*  
**6**

_“Found you when I went looking for me.”_  
– Nick Miller

Harry attached several photographs to an e-mail he was sending Mr. Yamaguchi. He had completed another of his fairy sculptures and was in the preliminary stages of a third. The elderly dollmaker was delighted when Harry sent him photographs showing the stages in his design process. Their responses did not include much text, because language was a bit of a barrier, and the free internet translation programs available were often questionable at best.

The completed sculpture had a woodland theme: a fairy riding on the back of a hare. The hare had started out life as a child’s wooden pull toy that would hop as you pulled it along. Harry had modified it, replacing missing or damaged pieces with upcycled metals and repairing the hopping mechanism so it moved smoothly. The fairy doll, clothed in sheets of thin copper cut and scored to resemble layers of oak leaves, with delicate wings that fluttered as the hare hopped, straddled the toy’s back. Harry had replaced the pull cord and added elaborate metal wheels, so the completed sculpture could still function as a pull toy.

He only had scattered parts to show Mr. Yamaguchi for the third sculpture. Still very much in the beginning stages, it consisted of a mantel clock, the doll and scattered wristwatch faces. Harry still had not decided if he would have the clock repaired or if he would gut it and turn it into a clock-themed fairy abode.

Harry checked the time at the bottom of the computer screen. He shut down the device and left his office. Teddy was finally off his fourteen-day quarantine, thankfully having not caught dragon pox, and his grandmother needed a weekend of well-deserved rest. 

~*~*~*~*~*  
Dennis looked down into that month’s Hadrian’s box and he nibbled his lower lip. His heart sank as he catalogued the motley assortment of picture frames without backing or glass, broken clocks, beads, buttons, bent silverware, and still another fecking camera. 

He looked around the charity shop but did not see Beatrice. He removed a letter from his jacket pocket and slipped it into the box before sealing it. He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.

~*~*~*~*~*  
Harry collapsed into a chair in the room they had turned into a library. After a day of running about London with Teddy, he was glad the little whirlwind had finally dropped off to sleep. He didn’t know how Andromeda kept up with him day in and day out.

Severus looked up from his potion notations, grateful for the quiet day he’d had for research while Harry was left with the task of burning off Teddy’s excess energy. Harry looked as if he was ready to fall asleep in the chair.

“Did Teddy have fun today?” Severus asked. 

“I think he did. We went to the zoo and, because we were in London, stopped at a few of the charity shops. We had pizza for dinner. I thought he’d be bored at the shops, but he seemed to like poking around. Frankly, I think he liked the pizza the best, because that’s not something he gets to eat very often.” Harry crawled out of the chair, afraid that he would fall asleep if he did not move. “I’m afraid Dennis Creevey thinks I’ve gone ‘round the bend.”

“He what?” Severus sharply looked up. “Did he tell you that?”

“He wasn’t at the charity shop when I picked up the box, but he’d tucked a letter into it addressed to me. It was a very kind, very gentle letter. He’s concerned that I might be losing touch with reality due to the trauma I went through. He wondered if he should continue to encourage my unhealthy hoarding tendencies by providing monthly boxes of rubbish. He apologized if I thought he was stepping out of bounds, but he is genuinely worried for me. He also included a pamphlet to a mental health clinic he attends.”

They exchanged a look. That was unexpected.

“They’ve never asked what I do with the box contents before, so I’ve never thought to tell them.” Harry gave a short laugh. “I’d bet anything it was those hideous red lampshades that made Dennis think I’d finally lost the plot.”

~*~*~*~*~*  
Harry set aside his screwdriver to answer his ringing mobile. Dudley’s name popped up on the screen.

“Hey, Dud.”

“Harry. Do you have a minute? You’re not in the middle of welding something?”

“Nah, I can talk. What do you need?”

“Do you have time to take on a commission?”

“It depends. What kind of commission?”

“You remember Esther, works with me?”

Yes, Harry remembered Esther. Dudley was sweet on her. 

“She loves your website, you know. Well, her great aunt died and left her twenty-four-place settings of silverware. Lives in a studio flat, so where’s she going to store a thing like that? And who needs twenty-four place settings of anything? Anyway, she likes your folded birds and flowers and wondered if you could make her some pieces to give to her family members as remembrance gifts.”

“It depends. First off, when does she need them? And second, what kind of silverware are we talking about? Is it stainless-steel or actual silver?”

“First. I don’t think there’s any rush. She’s not planning to tuck them into anyone’s Christmas stocking. Second. I don’t know. I’d have to ask her. Why? What difference does it make?”

“It makes a big difference in what I can do with it. Stainless-steel…I can bend it. I can weld it. But silver…it has a much lower melting temperature. I can bend it, but I’d destroy it if I tried to weld it.”

~*~*~* ~*~*  
Neville checked on the progress of the flower and vegetable beds he leased on Harry’s property before heading over to the estate gardens to see how they were doing as well. 

He stopped to admire the quintet of _Echinacea purpurea_ in the potions garden. They were still a bit too shiny, but they could just as easily tarnish in the Longbottom garden as they could here. He would need to ask Rus if they were available for sale. If not, he would definitely place an order for another set.

Rus. _Rus Prince_. Severus Snape had terrorized him for years while he studied Potions as a student, but for some inexplicable reason, he did not feel threatened by Rus Prince. And, unlike the general wizarding public, he knew they were the same man. A change in a man’s name to gain a degree of anonymity should not have changed that man’s personality, but it had. Neville was left to wonder which version of the man was the real one or were they both characters invented by a third version.

“So, Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” Harry asked mischievously, quoting the old nursery rhyme. He joined Neville in the potions garden. “Some of the veg should be ready to harvest soon.”

“Roxie and Moxie have been harvesting the early ripeners, but I’ll need to bring in a larger crew in the next few days.”

“I’ll let Kreacher know to ramp up his shopping list.”

“That’s not necessary, Harry. I can have meals for my workers brought in from the Manor.”

“Oh, no, you won’t. Kreacher would be most offended if another cook invaded his domain. Just have Roxie or Moxie give him a daily headcount.”

Neville knew better than to argue. It was best not to piss off a house-elf. They had very peculiar methods of retaliation.

“Farming sorted,” Harry settled down in a seat in the arbor and was soon joined by Neville. “What’s the latest on the Muggleborn Sponsorship debacle?”

“We’re working through a few problems. As you know, there are no Muggleborns on the Wizengamot and damn few Halfbloods…” 

“Do you even have any Muggleborns on your committee? Has anyone thought to ask what their experiences were? You should probably get Muggleborn input before you go much further.”

“That’s already been dealt with. Was brought up by Gregory Goyle, of all people, but in a much cruder fashion. He stood up in our first meeting and said: ‘This is a waste of my time. I don’t know what they need. You don’t know what they need. Only a Mudblood knows what another bloody Mudblood needs’.” Neville shrugged. “So, we contacted Headmistress McGonagall and she provided a list of former and current students she thought could assist us.”

“Hermione?”

“Actually, Hermione declined. She knows her personality is too abrasive for the old guard, but she did provide a list of suggestions. There is a group of about a dozen that have agreed to work directly with the committee. The only names you would probably recognize are Dean Thomas and Aiden Lynch. I never even knew Lynch was a Muggleborn.” Neville took a sip from a cup of tea that had silently appeared. House-elves were marvelous.

“We’ve hit a bit of a blockade, though. Family sponsorship sounded perfect on paper, but with all the cultural differences in play, it is just too hard to control the message. For example, a child assigned to a Narcissa Malfoy would certainly get a totally different introduction to wizarding traditions than the child assigned to, let’s say, a Xenophilius Lovegood.”

“And that’s even before you add in divergent political dynamics. Ernie McMillian’s mum and Molly Weasley are both considered Light Witches, but that’s their only similarity,” Harry laughed. “I can see the problem. What solutions have you come up with? There has to be some way to level the field.”

“Actually…we’ve come up with an idea. What do you think of a series of weekend retreats and summer camps led by a diverse group of witches and wizards?”

Harry thought for a moment. “That’s really a good idea if you get the right people running it. Camps and retreats are not out of the ordinary for many mundane families. It might not hurt to extend some of the retreats to the parents as well.” 

~*~*~*~*~*  
Severus sat at the library table with a sketchbook and a pen. He was drawing loose scribbles of a garden gate featuring a spiderweb pattern. The design would only be a rough approximation because once he began working with the iron, the initial design often changed. Metal sang in a language of its own. Harry would build the spider to accompany it once the project was more evolved.

Harry was working on the laptop. Severus wasn’t sure if he was still working on the household budget or not. 

“Oh, that’s sad,” Harry broke the silence of the room, half speaking under his breath.

“Is something the matter?”

“Mr. Yamaguchi passed away in his sleep last night. I just received notification from his granddaughter. He was 106.” Harry hadn’t known the old gentleman for very long, but he felt the loss just the same.

“That’s a long life for a man without magic.” Severus set down his drawing implement.

“She thanks me for bringing joy into his life these past few months. Apparently that little doll was made in the image of his wife, so it was doubly disappointing to him when it was discontinued. It pleased him that I saw the same charm in her as he did.” Harry was quiet as he continued to read the letter.

“We’re to expect a package. She says that there was something Mr. Yamaguchi wanted to give me before he died. But she doesn’t say what it is.”

~*~*~*~*~*  
“Esther wants to know if you can make an angel out of her knives.” Dudley texted from his mobile.

“What kind of angel?” Harry replied. He had already made her four birds and a bouquet of poppies from bent spoons and forks. They hadn’t even made a dent in the remaining flatware. “Free-standing or something to hang on the wall like a crucifix?”

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

~*~*~*~*~*  
“Denny,” Beatrice called back into the sorting room. “Someone’s sent you a letter.”

Dennis slipped off his protective gloves. That was unusual. Working in the charity shop had pretty much left him anonymous, which was part of his overall life plan.

Dennis opened the envelope, containing no return address, and discovered a single business card with a few words scrawled on the back.  
_D –_  
_Thank you for your concern. I’m doing as well as can be expected. Let me know if YOU need anything._  
_– H_  
_p.s. – Keep the rubbish flowing!_

Dennis flipped the card over:  
_**Lightning in a Bottle**_  
_Upcycled Designs by Hadrian Potter and Rus Prince_  
And beneath the text was an internet web address.

“What’s this all about?” Beatrice, ever nosy, was reading over Dennis’ shoulder.

“Oh, um,” Dennis thought quickly. “I tucked a note into the last box asking…what he was doing with the stuff so…you know…”

“That’s clever! If we know what he needs, we can make a better sort for him.” Beatrice chirped and Dennis sighed in relief. “Let’s go check out that web address.”

As they huddled over the computer screen in the back office, and the images loaded, Dennis’ concern for Harry’s mental health began to dissipate. The little animals made of tiny cogs and gears explained Harry’s need for broken clocks and watches. Parts of the old cameras might be mixed in there as well, Dennis thought.

“Those are pretty, in a spooky sort of way,” Beatrice said as a pair of folded flatware lovebirds appeared. They were in a cage made from what looked like the bare frame of an old lampshade. It was not the same shape as the hideous red shades, but it did explain why Harry had thought them special enough for purchase. 

Dennis clicked on a dark image in the corner of the screen and it enlarged. He could see a man in welding garb behind an explosion of sparks. His face was covered by the mask, but Dennis knew the body build was wrong for it to be Harry, so he determined it must be that of his partner, Rus. 

Something caught his eye. Dennis enlarged the image further and began to laugh when he read the words on the t-shirt:  
_Welding is like sewing with fire._

~*~*~*~*~*  
A box from Kyoto, Japan arrived several weeks after Mr. Yamaguchi’s passing. It was extremely heavy for the size of the box.

After carefully slicing through the thick packing tape, Harry was faced with a dense object wrapped in so many layers of bubble wrap it was practically wedged in the box. Whoever had packed the box wanted to assure it could not shift during shipping. 

With Severus wriggling down the cardboard box and Harry wiggling the bubble wrapped object up, they finally managed to free it. After liberating it from the shroud of wrapping, they stared at two plaster molds and pages of faded handwritten Japanese script that Harry assumed were instructions.

Carefully opening one of the molds, they could see the indentations for little arms and legs. The second, slightly larger mold revealed a pair of head and torso units. Mr. Yamaguchi had willed him the means to create as many of the cherished little dolls as Harry could ever need.

Harry blinked back the tears that swam in his eyes. What a precious final gift to give to a near stranger.

He didn’t know a thing about creating ceramics and didn’t have any real desire to learn the process but knew it would be possible to locate a porcelain artisan to assist him via a local university or the internet. 

Dudley told him that you could find just about anything on the internet.

“Are you all right?” Severus asked. He could see how much the unexpected gift had touched Harry.

“I’m just surprised the family would let her go like this. I would never have known he intended for me to have the molds. She is a likeness of their grandmother after all.” Harry wrapped his arms around Severus, laying his head against the older man’s chest, listening to the beat of his heart. Severus enveloped him in his arms, his head resting on Harry’s shoulder. “Mr. Yamaguchi must have loved his wife so very much.” 

Severus turned slightly, placing a kiss to Harry’s cheek.

“A few weeks ago, Neville compared life to chapters in a novel. I like that analogy.” Harry murmured into Severus’ chest.

“What do you mean?”

“I think the idea of us being characters in a novel describes our relationship perfectly. We shouldn’t work together, but we do. We share pages in a book written in a language that only we can decipher. It doesn’t matter to me if no one else ever understands it.” 

~*~*~*~*~*  
“Esther asks if you could possibly make both. It’s not as if she doesn’t have enough bloody silverware.”

**Author's Note:**

> Lightning in a Bottle - An incredibly difficult, unlikely, and/or elusive achievement 
> 
> If you are interested in what Harry and Severus’ designs might look like, do an internet search for tags such as: Artist Recycles Old Watch Parts Into Steampunk Sculptures, Artist Turns Unwanted Scrap Metal into Magnificent Birds, Steampunk Sculptures, Cutlery Art, Scrap Metal Art, Metalwork Birds, Silverware Projects, Metal Garden Art.
> 
> The different t-shirt slogans and other quotes come from various internet sites.
> 
> Please leave a comment here or at [LiveJournal](https://snape-potter.livejournal.com/3914517.html), [Insanejournal](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/snape_potter/1841292.html), or [Dreamwidth](https://snape-potter.dreamwidth.org/1173140.html).


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